


Don't Talk About It

by SkyWillSometimesWrite



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst, M/M, Season 15, it is time for pain, sorry simmons, temple pulls the trigger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 18:17:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13059480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyWillSometimesWrite/pseuds/SkyWillSometimesWrite
Summary: Grif and Simmons went through a lot together. Some of that, you just didn't talk about. Even when there was nothing else you could do.Season 15 Alternate Ending





	Don't Talk About It

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [At Gunpoint](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12906201) by [RiaTheDreamer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer). 



> After I read RaiTheDreamer's take on this prompt I got inspiration to do my own take on it. It was a good little project to do when we were doing nothing in class.

It felt like Simmons has dreaming. Dammit, he  _ hoped _ he was dreaming. There was a dizzying feeling in his head and if it weren’t made of cybernetic material he was sure his heart would have been rapidly beating from sheer panic. Grif was gone. He was… actually gone. For real this time. No second chances, no movie cliches where they were just hanging off the edge. He was gone. K.I.A.  _ Dead _ .

Bile was crawling up his throat as he stared down at the blood oozing from the orange helmet, the visor destroyed from the bullet that had sliced through it easily at a point-blank range. Simmons would kill Temple. He would  _ kill _ him for taking his best friend away from him right when he got him back. He would kill him for him away before he ever got the chance to even tell him how he felt. 

“Grif? Come, come on! Grif!” He was shaking the body hopelessly. He wanted to wake up. Or wake Grif up. He knew it was impossible but he was too angry and heartbroken and in shock to even comprehend what had completely happened yet. At least, that’s what he was telling himself. Even though he knew. He just didn’t want to believe it. “Dex?” Hope was draining. Emotion rising. 

He didn’t try to hold back the tears as they came or try to hide the rising sobs in his throat. He wasn’t frozen like the rest of his team and he wasn’t even bothering to help them but  _ god dammit Grif was dead and here he was being useless and it was probably all his fault- _

He heard another gunshot behind him, barely able to glance away from Grif to see another body laying, bleeding out on the ground. Blue.  _ Caboose? _ No. There was another blue figure right next to it, and that shine of blue visor confirmed it. That was Loco. This cocksucker had shot his own teammate. Simmons was furious for multiple reasons now. 

“Simmons! Get out of the way!” Tucker yelled right after he heard the click of a pistol getting prepared to shoot again. His head swiveled to look at Temple again, looking down directly at the barrel of his gun. 

“I’ll give you the same offer. Join the circle, or suffer the same fate as your idiot friend.” His voice was shaking.

Simmons felt something like a flame rush through his veins, his hands clenched into fists. He knew the psychopath couldn’t see him, but he felt like he could glare a hole right through the gun and into his very head. He shouted, jumping up and tackling Temple to the ground. The pistol and the remote for the armor lock slid across the ground. Andrews scooped it up quickly and unfroze everyone. Feet clunk around the room, several finding their way behind him.

Simmons didn’t pay attention to any of them. He was seeing red, which he imagined his commander officer saw on a daily basis. His body was taking over his mind, even the cyborg part. He was pinning Temple against the ground, punching his visor mercilessly.

_ “What do you want Grif? We have to get back or else Sarge will-” Simmons was frozen at what he was seeing. In front of him was an entire old school movie theater set up in front of him complete with a projector.  “What… the hell…” _

_ “What do you think? Took me ages to find all the parts for the projector, and don’t even get me started on the speakers. But hey, at least we finally got a kick-ass man cave we can hang out now. And we can restart  our sci-fi movie watching routine.” _

_ “You… set this all up? For us?” Simmons was speechless. Why would Grif-? Did he really care this much? Or was he just trying to get out of work again? Either way, with a nod and the brightest grin he had possibly ever seen from Grif, he walked in slowly. It was a normal cave with two old, beat up couches on either side of a small half-decayed wooden end table refurbished to the best of the lazy soldier's ability and the projector that didn’t look half bad on top of it. In front of it was a cooler with a few beers sticking out, and on either side of the other cave wall, two black speakers faced the small set up. Simmons couldn’t help but pick up the projector in awe, turning over in his hands. “You fixed these?”  _

_ “Eh, maybe.” Grif shrugged, but by the obvious pride in his voice and expression, it was clear he did. “Had to bug Lopez for the parts but otherwise it was pretty straight forward.” _

_ “I never took you for the tinkering type.” _

_ “I guess I’m full of surprises today.” _

_ He never asked him about why he set it up, simply enjoyed the company. It wasn’t something that they needed to talk about. _

Cracks were visible now on the blue visor, spider webbing. Simmons had no idea if Temple was even still conscious anymore.  There was yelling behind his ringing ears, his sobs clouding his vision. Some blood was stained on the helmet, filling the cracks. He could see his helmet in the reflection. Just like a mirror.

_ “Simmons?”  _

_ He was curled up on the bathroom floor, holding his organic hand with his metal one, tears and blood dripping on the floor. He barely recognized Grif’s voice and he looked up to see the orange soldier in the doorway, his expression shocked and… was that concern? In front of him was shattered glass and blood littered on the floor, wall, and sink. _

_ “G-Grif? I-I-” _

_ “Shut the fuck up.” Grif said sternly, now on the ground next to him. He had moved swiftly, grabbing the bandages from the medicine cabinet that was now clearly visible behind broken glass. He was plucking out the shards from Simmons’ knuckles and rinsing them off with a wet rag that had once been hanging up on the wall. Simmons was silent the entire time, watching Grif  bandage his self-inflicted injury. When he was done he just sat there, cradling Simmons’ hand and staring at it. It was silent for what felt like way too long. _

_ “I’m sorry-” _

_ “I said shut the fuck up.” Grif repeated to Simmons’ strained apology. _

_ So he did. And they sat there. Silent. Grif never asked him why Simmons did it. Simmons never told. A few similar situations happened afterwards but they never talked about. You don’t talk about it. _

“Simmons.” His blind rage was stopped by a strong teal hand. “He’s already out.” 

Tucker’s somber voice was more than unnerving. Simmons stared down at the helmet, cracked, blood staining it the blue tinted visor. Simmons didn’t even realize he was shaking until Tucker pulled him away and let him fall on the floor behind Temple and looked down at his hands. There was still a layer of drying blood barely visible on the black gloves and Simmons suddenly felt like he was suffocating. He fumbled with his helmet, attempting to shove it off his head unsuccessfully.

_ Simmons was thrashing in the water. He should have known that swimming on a fucking moon would have extremely strong currents. He had never been a strong swimmer, and his armor felt like it was weighing him down. And apparently this incredibly heavy armor didn’t keep out all the water because he felt a splash against his face from the bottom of his helmet. The helmet clasps must be failing. Which meant his helmet would come off. Simmons was going to drown if he didn’t short circuit first. Panic only grew and he was trying to tread water even more frantically.  _

_ Why had he let Griif have to go swimming today? Why did he have to be such a weak swimmer? Why did he have to care so much about his fucking useless teammate? Why did he -- _

_ His thoughts were cut off as his back hit something hard in the water, presumably a large boulder. The air left his artificial lungs and he swear he heard a wire snap as he lost his ability  to keep thrashing. He let the waves carry him, letting the water slosh around in his helmet, feeling it loose on his neck. It was quiet. Almost peaceful. Maybe if he fell asleep he wouldn’t even register drowning? _

_ Something caught his attention though, something strong wrapping around his waist as he was now dragged in the water with a sort of purpose. His HUD light had long since broke and he was staring into darkness, but he could sense that it was another person dragging him to shore. He didn’t think moons had lifeguards.  _

_ Before long Simmons felt something more solid brush against the lower half of his body, and he could almost make out the sounds of the waves again. Waves getting farther away. He wasn’t in the middle of them anymore. He was dropped roughly on the ground and he was too out of it to even bother trying to move. He still wasn’t sure he could. He could make out the faint sounds of someone yelling at him and he tried to strain the stronger side of his hearing to listen, but alas he couldn’t even make out whose voice it was. _

_ Suddenly, there was bright light right down at him. His helmet was off of him now, and he was blurrily staring up at the blue sky. Except, the sun looked a lot closer than what he was used to. He felt a pressure on his chest and before he knew it water was coming up his throat. He didn’t even realize he had swallowed any -- that couldn’t be good for cyborg insides. He forced his organic arm to move, pushing him over so he didn’t swallow his own vomit and let it fall onto the sand instead. His red hair flopped down into his eyes and he shook under his own weight trying to push himself up. He coughed up whatever water was left in his system before shakily sitting up, trying to decipher what had just happened. _

_ And the first thing he saw was Grif. Half-naked with only swim trunks to cover himself, his curly black hair wet and framing his head in an almost majestic way, drop of water reflecting the last bits of the sun’s rays on the tan side of his skin, sparkling on the pale side. His expression betrayed how worried he was for his friend, his hands hovering over the cyborg as if he would collapse at any moment. And, honestly, Simmons wasn’t convinced he wouldn’t. _

_ His helmet was off to the side along with his chestplate. Slowly, the pieces clicked together. Simmons was drowning and because Grif was a strong swimmer and pulled him to shore then gave him CPR which managed to work despite his insides being metal. Grif must be really good at CPR if he can save two people with it when it should be impossible. Maybe he should consider being a medic. Simmons would have to remember to mention that when he woke up -- along with a thanks -- because right now Simmons was face planting into the sand hearing nothing but a distressed “Simmons!” before darkness engulfed him. They never talked about it. _

He finally got a grip and ripped his helmet off along with his chestplate, trying to get his breathing to return to normal. Maybe that wire had never been fixed because his artificial lungs shouldn’t be malfunctioning like this. He held his head in his hands for two seconds before remembering the blood and pulling away with a yelp, backpedalling until he was against the wall as if he could run away from the suit he was wearing. He scanned the room desperately, looking for an exit of some sort so he could breathe because he still felt like he was suffocating and the room felt far too small. 

And then he spotted Grif again.

Doc by his side.

His helmet off.

Blood dripping.

Dark hole in his forehead.

Broken glass.

Glazed over eyes.

Staring right at Simmons.

A choked sound escaped Simmons and his body lurched forward, and before he knew it a new tidal wave of tears were streaming from his remaining eye. The eye that matched Grif’s. The eye that was just staring back him so lifeless.

“Grif, Grif, Grif no -- I, Grif -- Please you can’t -- Please! I just, I just got, no, no, no, no…” He dissolved into a ball right there, sobbing loudly as the realization finally settled on him.

_ There were shaking breaths from both of them, them visible in the air in front of them. The were both silent as they just watched the snowflakes fall. Simmons was surprised that the Hawaiian even decided to take his helmet off, considering he hasn’t been able to stop bitching about the cold since they got to sidewinder. But perhaps the adrenaline was still swimming around in his system. Maybe that’s why he was shaking. Simmons knew that’s why he was. _

_ Almost falling off a cliff could do that to a person. _

_ Grif pulled out a cigarette and struggled to light it for a few seconds before he visibly seemed to relax with the first drag. Simmons didn’t argue and Grif seemed to notice by the way he glanced over at the cyborg.  _

_ “You feeling okay, Simmons? I’m ruining your lungs right in front of you and you haven’t so much as sent a disapproving look.” He asked after blowing another puff of smoke into the air, it nicely contradicting the white overlay the rest of the place had. _

_ “I, well,” Simmons struggled to find the words. Grif had nearly  _ died _ right in front of him. And if he hadn’t grabbed the brute shot from the Meta then he would have followed right over the edge and it would be all his fault because he had decided to try to grab him with his right-fucking-arm. “I just think you deserve it. It’s been a long day.” _

_ “...yeah. Yeah it has.” Grif left it at that, taking another long drag and leaning his head back to blow up the smoke. They let the silence wash over them. They didn’t need the words to know that they didn’t need to talk about it. _

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t  _ fucking  _ fair. They had survived so much together. So much. A tank, the surgery, a bomb, freelancers, the Meta, a cliff, a civil war, mercenaries, Carolina, Chruch,  _ Sarge _ for crying out loud! Simmons never thought a bullet -- a fucking  _ bullet _ of all things -- split them up for good. It had always been Grif and Simmons. Simmons and Grif. They were a team. They were partners. They were…  _ them _ . Simmons had gotten used that. That was how things were, you  _ didn’t mess with the fucking status quo _ . But Temple just had to fuck with everything, didn’t he? If Grif had just stayed on that stupid fucking moon then, then…

They had been together for so long. Been through so much. How could it end just like that?

It all felt like a nightmare even as he was dragged out of the lair and into the transport ship to take them all home. He slightly registered Sister’s voice, her screams and others following after her. His team tried to ask if he was okay but gave up when he didn’t answer.

Simmons wasn’t okay. He had a feeling he might never be okay. But as the ship landed, the story was published, the funeral was held, and they retired for good this time, no one mentioned the name. Especially not around Simmons.

There were somethings you just didn’t talk about.

**Author's Note:**

> I was always interested by the lack of mention about previous events between Grif and Simmons (especially when they were alone) considering all they've gone through together. The cliff, Simmons being left behind in Valhalla, even the surgeries are rarely mentioned and when they are its usually about Simmons' half. So when they were adamant about not talking about the ToP incident I had to wonder what else they agreed not to talk about. My guess: a lot.


End file.
